


The Needle Drops.

by songagainstsex



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexy Times, but also time spent meandering through record collections
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songagainstsex/pseuds/songagainstsex
Summary: Her laugh is a melody he’d spend his whole life chasing. Maybe he will. Bliss would be hearing her voice just before the stake hits his heart.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Kudos: 6





	The Needle Drops.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i'm a nightmare and i've entered another fandom. so here's a series of vignettes wherein buffy spends time with spike's music collection and either: hates it, mocks him relentlessly for it, or actually is sincere about something, for once. either way, i have a few ideas here and they all centre around my completely canon you'll never convince me otherwise idea that spike is a big music buff and buffy is intrigued (but will never tell). rating will fluctuate. happy reading! xx

_And the way I feel tonight, I could die and I wouldn’t mind.  
And there’s something going on inside:  
Makes you want to feel, makes you want to try  
Makes you want to blow the stars from the sky  
And I can’t stand up, I can’t cool down,  
I can’t get my head off the ground_

/

Spike loves having Buffy in his crypt.

He’d never say this to her because she’s skittish, reminds him of a bow-legged doe on ice, at risk of falling through (away from him) at any second, but when he watches her practically float around, admiring his things and having some semblance of a conversation with him, he feels it. Unadulterated and pure: love love love. It almost makes him feel human. Or, well. Something slightly less demonic, at any rate.

This thought shouts in his head as she stands at his record collection, flipping covers over and over and over, looking at them quizzically. He watches her from the bed, his eyes just barely open, making her a blur of golden blonde hair. He’d call her an angel if the metaphor wasn’t too on the nose and wholly inappropriate for them both.

Of course, there’s the filthy bit of this, too, which is she’s wrapped a sheet around herself, hugging it tightly against her skin. Her warm, perfect, pale skin. So he’s getting an eyeful of her hips and her ass and it makes his cock twitch. He aches for her, all the time. He loves her like he’s never loved anything. She says she doesn’t love him, but—

“What’s this?” she asks, tenderly taking a white record jacket from its shelf and holding it up for him to view. He makes a big show of sitting up, opening his eyes, like they don’t both know he was eyeing her.

“That would be a record.”

She rolls her eyes. His cock jumps again. “Yes, thank you, Casey Kasem, I meant what _record_ is this?”

“Trompe Le Monde by the Pixies.”

She nods as though this means anything to her, while he is quite sure that it does not, but she’s inspecting the track listing all the same. “Would I like it?” she asks finally.

“Dunno, pet, I think I need more information about what you usually like,” he tries for something a bit seductive, especially since she’s facing him now and the white of his sheets clings to her breasts, making her nipples visible and he wants to devour her _righthissecond_. 

There’s another painful twitch.

“I think it’s safe to say you have a very solid idea of what I do and don’t like,” she retorts quickly. One hand clutches at the fabric surrounding her and the jacket, while another pokes out to pick up a shot glass. Her head tips back and in the whiskey goes. “I want to listen to this,” she declares, in the demanding tone she tends to take on when she’s drunk. “How do I do it?”

He’s starting to feel nervous for his turntable, so he gets up and walks over, plucking the album from her hands and tipping it over to coax out the record sleeve. “Very carefully, for one,” he tells her with a shit eating grin. “Which I’m not so sure you’re capable of at the minute.” He twirls the record in his hands, before lifting the cover off the turn table.

“Hey, you were the one that broke the table, not me.” 

When everything is sorted, he lets the needle drop. Distorted guitar filters over speakers he, ahem, acquired at some point in the 70s, and he stands confidently naked before her. No point in having shame now. “You know,” he tells her, picking at his nails, trying to appear casual, “I’ve never been too fond of that chair.”

Her laugh is a melody he’d spend his whole life chasing. Maybe he will. Bliss would be hearing her voice just before the stake hits his heart. The sheet slowly, tantalisingly, slides off her shoulders, down her back, over her hips, her legs. She’s sauntering, which must really mean she’s drunk because she hasn’t tried to hit him yet.

Thankfully, they’re only just getting started.

\

She sits on the chair in front of him, her legs spread. His hands are braced against her knees while he trails fluttering kisses across her thigh. He can’t help biting her, no fangs of course, but he doesn’t need them to leave circular marks, blue and purple, reminders he hopes of the time they steal away. (In a darker moment, he’d wonder if she even likes, genuinely enjoys, being here with him at all, but he can’t fall into that rabbit hole, now when she’s here, like this). She inhales sharply when his tongue finds her clit and his fingers move brush over her skin. Lightly. Teasing. He wants her to fucking beg, even though he knows she’ll just place an order instead.

God he loves her.

/

Well. 

The chair is in pieces. Many pieces. Hard to say who’s fault this one is, but it doesn’t matter. He’d destroy every item in this house if it meant he could spend one more second with her, inside her, kissing her. It’s what makes it so painful when she leaves, he’s left with her (literal) carnage and she—she doesn’t give him another thought.

\

“I like it,” she says, after a silence that has stretched on, punctuated only by their ragged breaths and the music.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he teases.

“Shut up,” another eye roll, another rush of blood, “I meant the music. It’s not so bad.”

“Oh, yeah. This is a great one,” he agrees, somewhat surprised at her approval, “Put out a lot of good records way back when.”

It’s been 24 days since their …escapade?... at the abandoned house, he keeps track like clockwork, since this feels fragile, or at least fleeting. What with her absolute insistence she doesn’t love him. Maybe that’s true. Maybe she really isn’t capable, though the part of him for a thousand reasons, he won’t linger on this too long. Or at all. Still, he’s not so sure. Silence falls again between them and with her eyes closed, she almost looks _comfortable_. He knows she finds something here. Solace? Peace? Happiness? He asks sometimes, why she continues to come to him, and she (annoyingly) dodges like an expert.

“I should probably go,” she tells him, breaking his train of thought. “Dawn will be wondering where I am.”

“Ah, the Bit’s fine,” he responds, tugging on her legs and bringing her into his lap. His hands lie flat between her shoulder blades and he kisses her collarbone. “I’m not ready for you to go yet,” he adds, his voice quiet and sincere and adoring.

“Spike,” but there’s no real force behind it, not when he’s running his teeth over her neck and his hands down her back to squeeze her perfectly sculpted ass. If he still were a poet, oh the odes he would write to this woman’s body. Again, she practically whispers, “Spike,” and he knows he’s got her just where he wants her.

Here. With him.

“Yes, love, I’m right here,” another kiss, a bit of teeth, his nails digging into her skin.

An agitated sigh leaves her next, not quite what he’s expecting, but he’s even less prepared for the empty space on his lap, “Don’t call me love. I’ve gotta get home.”

/

He stays on the floor, watching her flit around and collect her clothes, pulling them over her limbs. He is nursing a drink she very graciously (not at all graciously) poured for him. “When will I see you again?” he asks quietly, staring at the brown liquid before tipping half of it down his throat.

“I don’t know, Spike. Maybe never,” but as soon as it leaves her mouth, she shakes her head, knowing that was too much even for him. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

All he can do is nod.

\

It’s hard to explain why or how she got this hold on him. What specifically it is, even. Still. When she’s gone, he feels it right in his marrow, an ache shaped like her.

An ache that grows, since it feels like she’s always going.


End file.
